


Epoch of Disorder

by Atypical16 (orphan_account)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Canon Compliant, Difficult Decisions, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hogwarts, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Games, POV Multiple, PTSD symptoms, Period Typical Attitudes, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Slytherins being assholes, Unrequited Love, War with Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: When memory charms and blood pacts are broken.





	1. Something's Wrong

_ Something’s wrong. _ The realisation was similar to the pressure drop in the air right before a storm. Tension had already spread through the castle due to the advancement of Grindelwald, but that was shared, non-specific. Polymela was sure she alone felt this particular dread. 

For one thing, she’d had it before. It had been rearing its ugly head on and off for a fortnight—since the start of 1945. She couldn’t pinpoint how it came about. There had to be some sort of catalyst but she could not recall—

“Nott, for Merlin’s sake,” James Dorsey grumbled, holding a jar of Bicorn Horn powder. “Will you help or just stand there?” 

His arch nemesis, who happened to be at the table ahead of them, turned around and said, “Oi, Dorsey, where’s your manners, you knobby brute?” 

“Shut up, McLaggen—” 

“Gentlemen, settle down,” Professor Slughorn called from the front of the room, where he was attempting to fix the disaster in Bruin Weasley’s cauldron. 

Without a word, Polymela took the jar from Dorsey and added a couple pinches of the powder until their Pepperup Potion turned a bright orange. 

“It’s supposed to be more of a rust,” Dorsey informed her frostily. “I can see you’re not planning on going to NEWT level.”

“Oi, Dorsey,” called Felix Murdoch from the Slytherin side. “Why don’t you keep that smarmy trap shut for ten minutes?” 

Dorsey scowled and turned away while Polymela sent a grateful look Murdoch’s way. He and his partner, Alphard Black, were quite tolerable for Slytherin boys, but the one at the table in front of them, Icarus Yaxley, was a different story. 

Blonde, freckled, and wealthy, Yaxley was, in sum, the typical, obnoxious, Sacred 28-descended prat. However, he left most of the Gryffindors alone, so Polymela hadn’t much contact with him. Except now he was giving her an odd leer, like she was his entertainment for the afternoon. 

“Like what you see, Nott?” he asked quietly. She quickly turned away, feeling her cheeks flush, betraying her discomfort. 

On her other side, Dorsey glared at her as if she was the one to draw attention to herself. “Give me that, please,” she hissed, snatching his copy of  _ Advanced Potion Making _ out of his hands even though her own was in her bag draped across the stool. 

“Hmm, we need to add the mandrake root,” she mumbled, scanning the table and seeing they didn’t have it. Since Dorsey didn’t move, she added, “I’ll go get it.” 

As she pulled a root from the crate next to Slughorn’s desk, her blood ran cold again, the dread intensifying. It was here, waiting in the queue in the beginning of the lesson, where it had started before. She’d been standing behind Yaxley, his fancy French cologne in her nose, and out of nowhere, her heart had kicked up, but why? Yaxley hadn’t leered at her then, hadn’t even looked her way. 

Clutching the mandrake root tighter than necessary, Polymela shook her head and walked back to the cauldron. She couldn’t understand what the big fuss was about.  _ They’re connected _ , a voice deep in her head said as she set the root on the chopping block.  _ What _ was connected? No answer for that. 

“I sure hope you had some grand epiphany over there,” Dorsey sniped as she began chopping, “because we’re not likely to finish.” 

He turned out to be right, but it didn’t matter since 25 of the best brewing pair’s awarded 50 points went to Gryffindor, due to one of them being Emmeline Arnold. Her partner, a Slytherin prefect by the name of Harper Messier, was the brightest in their year, the likely reason the pair received the points. 

“Of course it’s Messier,” Beatrice Winter grumbled to Ignatius Prewett. “Why even bother with her around?” 

“We’re just as bright,” Dorsey insisted. “Slughorn favors her is all. Slytherins are so biased.” 

Polymela wanted to point out that Emmeline Arnold was in their house; thus, there was a flaw in the theory. But she knew her housemates wouldn’t listen to her. They hardly considered her a house mate. 

Thankfully, the anxiety subsided in the Great Hall, especially once Polymela sat down facing away from the Slytherin table. On the way to Herbology it almost faded entirely, and by the end of lessons, it didn’t plague her at all. 

After completing her homework, her plan for the evening was to curl up in bed and read the newest book her grandmother had sent:  _ The Phoenix Flies at Midnight. _ Polymela was happy to read of anything not concerning Gellert Grindelwald, since that’s all The Daily Prophet wrote about.

Unfortunately, that plan was halted upon stepping foot in the common room and discovering that Beatrice Winter had formed an anti-Grindelwald congregation of students strewn across sofas and seated on the floor. “If he makes us pin that bloody triangle to our robes,” Antonia Longbottom of Ravenclaw was declaring from one of the armchairs, “we shall turn them upside down as a subtle expression of defiance.”

“Hear, hear,” called Ignatius Prewett, while the rest of the group, which consisted of all Houses except Slytherin, clapped and nodded along. 

Polymela crept to the dormitory as quietly as possible, but she still caught the attention of a few on the periphery. With her tall frame and abundance of curly auburn hair, she couldn’t exactly hide. As expected, they shot her glances laced with contempt. Ducking her head, she scuttled away. 

Reading in the dormitory was out of the question, for Beatrice and Emmeline would be arriving soon, hyped up from hatred of Grindelwald and blood supremacy. Then they wouldn’t see Polymela their classmate, only the daughter of Ulysses Nott. She sighed; like she’d asked for one of the biggest Grindelwald supporters on this side of the world for a father. He wasn’t too happy with his Gryffindor daughter, either. 

Draping her bag over the desk chair, she thought of a better place to spend the evening. The vast, abandoned room on the fifth floor was surely empty, waiting for her. For the first time in Merlin-knew-how long, a small smile lifted the corners of her lips as she opened her bureau drawer and took out her second-most prized possession—the first was a silk dress with a billowed skirt her grandmother had given her for her 16th birthday—Maria Lambetti’s new record. Holding it against her chest, Polymela left Gryffindor Tower without a glance at the others, in a much better mood. 

The intended plan for the abandoned room was unknown, but it had the required criteria: wide open space tucked away from others and a record player. Polymela set up the record, smiling again when Maria Lambetti’s voice echoed around the room. 

She took off her school robes and flung them over a creaky old chair. Her vest was about to follow, but as her hands reached up to her collar, the dread clenched around her stomach, her heart picking up speed ever so slightly. 

“I’ll just leave it on, then,” she muttered, sick of the whole thing already. With her arms stretched wide, Polymela closed her eyes and began to twirl, singing along.  _ “Take me back to the good old days...to the blue skies free of pain…” _

At once, the dread dissipated, allowing her to slip out of reality for the duration of the song. Her heavy wool skirt billowed around her legs, freeing them, while her long curls fanned out.  Time ceased as she swayed, the world silenced at last. 

Dancing was the only activity in which she felt like a woman, not a tall, gangly imitation. Her aunt told her once that her lithe figure would attract men as soon as she was fully developed, but who knew when that would be, as Polymela was already 16. Right here, right now, none of that mattered; her body felt weightless. 

That was cut abruptly short when the next song started playing, usually her favorite: “A Whisper in the Dark.” The dread came back full-force, stopping her in her tracks. Maria Lambetti’s smooth voice belted out lyrics Polymela could rehearse without thinking, but her throat was clogged, preventing her from singing. 

Desperate for air, she fell to her knees, gasping. Her throat was closing tighter, a piercing ringing blocking out the record. The song sounded tinny and distorted, the room blurring in front of her eyes. Merlin, what was happening? Was she dying?  _ Breathe!  _ Her mind was shrieking at her body, but her lungs weren’t cooperating. 

“No, no…” she moaned, pressing her palms against her ears and crouching over. Saliva dribbled down her chin and her eyes filled with tears as the ringing grew louder, vibrating her skull…

Her forehead met the wooden floor, stirring up dust, which filled her nose and triggered a sneezing fit. Oddly, this jolted her out of panic, calming her down. Gasping, she pinched her nose and inhaled sharply. 

The record played on as if its owner hadn’t nearly died on the the floor in front of it. For a moment, Polymela lost lucidity, blinking in consternation. Then she climbed to her feet and pulled the needle off the record with shaking hands. She was trembling and covered with sweat, her heart hammering away, but at least her mind was clear. 

“Well, that was horrible,” she muttered to herself just to hear to voice, to confirm that she was indeed still alive. After stuffing the record back in its case, she slipped on her robes and made her way back to Gryffindor Tower, walking briskly and taking quick, even steps. 

Luckily the rally was finished, a few Gryffindors lingering around the fire, mugs of mead in hand. Only Ignatius Prewett noticed her, giving her a small smile. By the time she got her mouth working, he’d looked away. 

Once she entered the fifth-year girls’ dormitory, she’d calmed down considerably. Beatrice Winter was the single occupant, sitting at her desk, writing what appeared to be a letter. 

Polymela kicked off her shoes and drew the bed hangings without undressing. She lay flat on her back, the record next to her elbow. Exhaustion took hold, weighing her muscles down and sinking her into the blanket and pillow. Her eyes closed, ready for sleep, but her mind still raced, trying to make sense of it all. 

_ Something’s wrong _ —that much was clear. What wasn’t clear was anything else. Was Polymela simply going mad? She wouldn’t be the only one in the castle, with the threat of Grindelwald taking over the UK. No, it couldn’t be, she assured herself, otherwise she would feel mental all the time, not just under certain circumstances. 

Listing those circumstances would probably help, she figured, so she started with the obvious, that Maria Lambetti tune. Why would one of her favorite songs steal the breath from her lungs? Such an odd reaction, yet so powerful. Even now, the anxiety lingered. 

Brushing back her hair with sticky palms, Polymela recalled the potions lesson, Yaxley, the scent of his cologne. He hadn’t done anything strange, though…

What had started it? Racking her mind, she tried to remember the very first time she felt the dread. New Years Day...walking down the corridor...the pale winter sunlight shining through the large windows...nearly bumping into two green-robed figures, both handsome and dark-haired: sixth-year Slytherin prefect Cygnus Black and Head Boy Tom Riddle, also of Slytherin. 

They’d been smirking at the girl in front of them.  _ Sorry _ , she’d mumbled, shuffling away, eyes on her Mary Janes, wanting to get as far away from them as possible. Riddle was nothing but unobtrusive and polite, but Black was another Sacred 28 rich boy, even worse than Yaxley. Last term, he’d told Polymela she was a disgrace to her bloodline by allowing the Sorting Hat to place her in Gryffindor. This had wounded her, since her father shared that sentiment, but she hated them both so she quickly disregarded it. 

As much of an arrogant arsehole as Cygnus Black was, he wasn’t dangerous, not to her knowledge. A couple of years ago when the muggle-borns were targeted by something within the castle, everyone pointed the finger at him, considering he loathed each victim. But after Myrtle Warren’s death, Rubeus Hagrid was caught with a giant beast and expelled. Not very surprising, as Hagrid was always trying to sneak vicious creatures into the castle despite multiple reprimands and detentions. 

Then, what? Why such a reaction to a boy who was all talk? Something crucial was missing, but Polymela was too tired to think of it any longer, the wheels of her mind finally stilling. As she rolled over, he elbow slammed into the record case, knocking it off the bed. It slid under the bed hangings and dropped to the floor, ignored. Meanwhile, Polymela settled on her side, hugging the pillow, and succumbed to sleep.

~**~

The early morning sun streamed through the high windows in sharp contrast to the fog of gloom that had overtaken the castle lately. The Daily Prophet had arrived while Albus was dressing, sitting neatly on the desk in his office. He’d decided he was not going to read it just yet. 

He took a seat and lifted his teacup, surveying the world outside. Saturday, no classes, allowed for a more languid pace. The quidditch pitch had a few blue dots scattered around—Ravenclaws’ practice. Despite the bright sun, the outside air was below freezing. 

Albus smiled, recalling his own youth, when weather and other obstacles never stopped him. Now he felt as if he was forever held in place by something he couldn’t see. At least he was held at Hogwarts teaching the next generation of wizards. On that train of thought, he had plenty of essays to grade.

After another swallow of tea, Albus dove into the seventh-year pile, the easiest, for his NEWT classes had a much better grip on Transfiguration theory than the younger-years. Of course that was to be expected—the younger-years were in the midst of a steep learning curve in both magical theory and the world itself. Not so easy, coming of age in the Great Wizarding War, especially for muggle-borns. Because of this, Albus had vowed to increase his threshold of patience. 

Halfway through the first essay—so far nearly flawless, written by Head Girl Lysandra Bell—a harried knock came from his office door. “Enter,” he called, setting down his quill. 

A wide-eyed Septima Vector burst into the room. “Albus!” she cried. 

Automatically assuming something happened to a student, Albus stood, ready to trot out of the room. “What’s happened, Septima?”

“Have you read the paper?” 

“I have not,” he answered, calming a bit. If the urgency was outside the castle walls, the students weren’t in immediate danger. Just the usual amount of danger, he reminded himself grimly. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?” 

Septima nodded, spotting the folded newspaper on the desk as she sat down. She snatched it up and set it on top of Lysandra’s essay, facing Albus. The headline jumped out: GRINDELWALD SEIZES FRENCH MINISTRY. 

“He’s advancing, Albus,” said Septima, voice wobbling with worry. “It’s only a matter of time before he sets his sights on the UK.”

“That won’t happen,” he assured her firmly. 

“It quite looks like it will,” she insisted with a glance at the photo of a very familiar symbol spray-painted on a Parisian building: a triangle with a line through the center and circle in the middle. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Once, in a different lifetime, Albus had drawn that symbol on parchment, had signed his name with it. 

Now it turned his stomach almost as much as watching his lover become his enemy—almost. 

“Albus, please,” said Septima in an unusually soft tone. “You’re the only one who can defeat him.” 

Albus tore his eyes from the photo and looked into her eyes, wide with fear. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see the normally brisk, cold woman on the verge of tears. 

“I’m not sure I can defeat him,” he admitted, “but I will not let him seize Magical Britain.” 

Septima nodded, satisfied with his answer. She reached over and squeezed his hand before leaving. 

By now his tea had gone cold, so he abandoned it, along with the newspaper and essays, and walked to the window, gazing out to the field. The blue dots were all in the air now, zooming around the pitch. Albus had to protect them. He’d failed in 1943 despite every effort to catch the killer. Catch, not find, for he was right under everyone’s nose. Proof, unfortunately, was nowhere to be found. 

Swallowing a ball of distaste, Albus turned away from the window and sat back down at his desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside a locked cedar box was a phial, which he took out to inspect even though he’d held it countless times in that previous life. It had held a mixture of his and Gellert Grindelwald’s blood—a blood pact made between two 17-year-old boys, two lovers. 

Now the phial was empty, only the faintest pink tinting the glass. After a painful bit of complex, obscure magic, Albus had drained the blood, effectively ending the pact. Nothing had befallen him yet, but Albus knew the consequence would come for him once he actually moved in defiance of the pact.  _ Neither of us shall move against the other. _ But Grindelwald was effectively moving against Albus, wasn’t he? He couldn’t honestly expect Albus to remain tucked at Hogwarts forever while he turned the wizarding word—the entire world—upside down, would he?

And yet, that is exactly what you’re doing, a voice in his head pointed out. 

Now without the blood pact, there was no obstacle unless Grindelwald had already gotten the Elder Wand. This was very likely, as that the Hallow he’d been most intent on possessing. He’d never given up his quest for the Deathly Hallows. On the contrary, it had taken a single afternoon for Albus to give up his quest for them entirely. 

Something burning was brewing in his throat. Elder Wand or not, Grindelwald had to be stopped and clearly the ministries were not the ones to do it. 

Taking a swallow of the cold tea to soothe the burning, Albus checked his watch. He had to form a plan to take down his former lover and the most dangerous wizard in the world, but now was not the time. The more pressing and much easier task was to think up non-magical labor that would occupy at least two hours, for Icarus Yaxley was due to start detention in 15 minutes.

~**~


	2. When You Regret

Polymela was on a mission. The dread was building, pushing her to the edge of an unseen cliff. What was in the abyss, she hadn’t a clue. 

At breakfast, she took a seat facing the Slytherin table, directly across from Riddle’s group. She focused her gaze on Yaxley first, since it was he who leered at her and wore the triggering cologne. Then Cygnus Black because of that encounter on New Years Day. However, neither they nor the rest of the group glanced her way, too preoccupied with the morning post. Polymela didn’t have to read her copy of The Daily Prophet to know what was on the front page, for the entire Great Hall was talking about it. 

Grindelwald and his Magic Army had just taken over France. If she was entirely honest, Polymela wasn’t sure of her opinion on that. The majority of students and The Daily Prophet proclaimed Grindelwald a ruthless tyrant, hellbent on ruling both the muggle and wizarding worlds. Ulysses Nott had a different opinion on the matter and stated it where his daughter could hear it: “Grindelwald knows the muggles need to be controlled. All of the destruction he said they’d cause, they caused.”

And Polymela did not have an argument against it, for the muggles did cause a lot of destruction. Though there was never a word of it in The Daily Prophet, many of the muggle-born students spoke of explosions and sirens and rumoured mass killings on the other side of Europe. 

She raised her eyes from the photo on the first page of Grindelwald’s triangular symbol—what did it mean, anyway?—and glanced at the Slytherin table. Yaxley was deep in conversation with Murdoch and the Black cousins, but the boy on the other side of him looked straight at her. Her heart stopped as her eyes locked onto Tom Riddle’s dark ones. The dread took over and she swallowed hard, trying desperately to tear her gaze away but completely frozen. Then, thankfully, a curly, blonde-haired head blocked out his face as Mel McCready took a seat at the Ravenclaw table. 

Even more confused, Polymela finished eating and left the Great Hall, taking deep breaths to slow the frenzy in her chest. Why on Earth would Tom Riddle bring about the dread? He’d spoken maybe two words to her in their overlapping five years at Hogwarts. He wasn’t ornery like his group of friends, who seemed to worship him, probably due to his above-average magical talent. 

But other than that and his face, which everyone including Polymela agreed was handsome, there wasn’t much remarkable about him, certainly nothing dangerous. Also a touch arrogant, he was quiet and passed time alone, except for when leading the wealthiest, most influential boys at Hogwarts, even though he himself was raised in a muggle orphanage. Apparently, this less than savory background—was he, too, surrounded by explosions and disarray every summer?—was excused by the wizarding half of his bloodline coming directly from Salazar Slytherin. 

The bloke was odd, that much was clear, but that explained nothing. What about him, then?

Polymela did not come close to Yaxley during their potions lesson, so she’d have to wait until Thursday for that. The next move was to bring her record back to the fifth floor and play it, more specifically, “A Whisper in the Dark.” Just having the tune play in her head constricted her lungs. No matter; she had to go through this anyway, had to find answers. 

Unfortunately, she was held up nearly all evening in the library, finishing an Ancient Runes translation due the next morning. By the time she finally finished, hand cramping and eyes dry, it was after curfew. 

“Swell,” she whispered, slipping her textbook and parchment into her bag, all the while keeping an eye out for the librarian, Madam Elspeth. Her heart was racing again, but this time it was attributed to sneaking around. Polymela had never been good at that. 

She was going to have to, though, to navigate any obstacles to the fifth floor. Professors, prefects, Heads, and Peeves the poltergeist were all in the corridors on the hunt for wayward students. The idea of getting detention and tarnishing her record of good behavior left a bad taste in her mouth. 

_ Get moving _ , the rarely-seen brave side hissed in her head. After a mini pep-talk from this voice, Polymela left the dormitory, record clutched to her chest. 

Hood up, she managed to creep through the common room and the corridors undetected. She decided to take that as a good sign despite her hands getting sweaty and starting to shake. 

Once the record was on the player, she dropped the needle on the approximate location of the second song. It caught the tail-end of the first one, so she stretched out her limbs in preparation. 

The song ended; “A Whisper in the Dark” started to play. Ignoring her heaving chest and the urge to rip the needle off the record, Polymela lifted her arms and began to twirl. She made one full rotation before catching sight of a tall, shadowed figure approaching. 

Jumping as if scalded, she tripped over her own foot and teetered sideways. Just as she straightened up, the figure stepped into the moonlight flooding through the high circular window. 

She recognised the handsome face of Tom Riddle, and instantly, a vivid, unfamiliar image filled her mind: herself standing in the same spot, facing a flock of nearly identical male figures. The image pricked her skin. 

Riddle was speaking, but Polymela couldn’t hear him over the music. After standing locked in place for half a minute, she finally got her body working again. 

“Ha-hang on,” she stuttered, walking toward the record, not quite turning her back on the older boy. Hopefully he wasn’t in the mood to give out detention...or something worse. 

Come off it, she scolded herself, pulling the needle away from the record. A ripping sound filled the air, then silence. The new image of those figures plagued her. Just what in the hell…?

“Well, well, look what we have here,” Riddle cut through her thoughts in a sardonic tone she’d never heard before, though it came so easily, she suspected he used it often. “A student not only out of bed but prancing around like she owns the place.” 

“I was just—” she protested but quickly fell silent at the flash of frustration in his eyes, so potent it was almost visible, tinted red. 

That’s ridiculous, logic said, just take your detention and get out of here. Oddly—blessedly—she was not nervous, only antsy, ready to scoot back to Gryffindor Tower. 

Meanwhile, Riddle was simply watching her. A beat passed in silence as he and Polymela exchanged indecipherable glances before he spoke. 

“Perhaps your next little habit won’t involve breaking school rules,” he sneered, crossing his arms. Even with this haughty Head Boy attitude, he was attractive; in fact, it suited him, though Polymela quite disliked being on the receiving end. 

“Perhaps not…” she said slowly, trailing off again, for the implication of his words just occurred to her.  _ Your next little habit… _ So he knew she came here often. Not exactly surprising, since the Head Boy knew just about everything, but why had he waited until just now to apprehend her? 

_ Something’s wrong… _ He had apprehended her before, according to this odd image. He, Yaxley, Cygnus Black… They’d approached her...when? And what had happened? 

Riddle chuckled, reading the questions off her face. “Don’t remember New Years Eve, do you? Well, you did have quite a bit of champagne.”

Polymela shook her head so hard, a lock of hair slipped from the pins and fell across her face. She would never, under any circumstances, drink alcohol in the presence of boys—but through her indignance, she felt the taste on her tongue, slightly sweet with hints of rosemary. Bitter but sliding smoothly down her throat, warming her stomach. 

With the taste came thick, rotten shame, for Polymela did recall drinking champagne. But she hadn’t much of a choice, had she? More of the memory permeated: the boys flocked around her, she was holding the record case to her chest like usual… 

_ Come have a drink, darling _ , one of them insisted.  _ Just one, come on, it’s New Years, it won’t be 1944 much longer.  _

Of course she’d declined; she’d been raised a proper pureblood witch, after all. But eventually she’d given in, taken a glass, fitting it snugly into her sweaty palms. Why? Yes, because they’d locked her in, the door handle stiff and unyielding in her grip. 

_ Fine, just one, then _ , knowing that was her only way out. The expression on the boys’ faces had been hungry as they watched her take her first sip of rosemary champagne. Naturally the stares made her feel uncomfortable, but she couldn’t deny they excited her the tiniest bit, prompting her to finish the glass. 

And then...and then… 

“I-I don’t…” Her voice was wobbly, betraying her horror. Under her skin tiny bugs crawled all over as she bristled, staving off the urge to run away. In front of her, Riddle was still watching her, his head cocked to the side. 

“I don’t remember,” Polymela told him around a ball of solid dread lodged in her throat. 

He raised his eyebrows and gave her such a contemptuous look, she felt herself shrinking away. “That is obvious, dear.” 

“Please,” she whispered without her mind’s permission.  _ You don’t want to know. I must find out anyway. _ “Please tell me what happened.”  _ Why can’t I remember?  _

He took a step closer and now he was too close, standing only a foot away, her eyes level with his mouth. “Perhaps I could show you instead.” 

A cool hand softly pinched her chin and tilted her head up until she was looking into his eyes, black as night, voids she was falling into…

The boys were back. The air was darker somehow. A memory, she realised, for she could feel Riddle’s hand on her chin but not see it. Something else was odd: she was looking not at the boys, who stood beside her, but at a tall, willowy girl in a button-up blouse, wool skirt, and long auburn curls. Herself. 

A pale hand appeared in front of her, flicking a wand of yew. A glass of champagne floated toward the pseudo-Polymela, who gripped it, eyebrows mashed into her forehead. She felt the unease, tasted the champagne…

This was Riddle’s memory and she was seeing it through his eyes. She watched the girl sip from her glass. The boys had their full attention on her, saying some nice things, such as, “You sure have blossomed over the summer, Nott,” and, “You’re becoming a knockout. Are you looking for a husband?” 

And some not so nice things: “No friends in Gryffindor, I see. Serves you right, you should’ve listened to Daddy.” Those were all from Yaxley. Merlin did she hate that kid. 

All the while, Riddle did not speak, simply staring at the champagne-sipping girl far more than the rest of them. 

The scene faded out for a moment. Then she was back in the same room, still in the shadowed memory. Except now the pseudo-Polymela was on a lounge chair that must’ve been transfigured out of something, probably the wooden chair. The pale boy-hands appeared, running up the girl’s long, bare legs. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, let me see,” Riddle was saying. 

The girl was obeying, giggling as she unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a plain, pink bra over two budding breasts. 

“No,” she moaned as she recalled from her own distant memory a fleeting coolness on her chest, her bust exposed…

Though she looked identical, this girl was not Polymela. Never would Polymela undress so freely, giggling and letting the Head Boy’s hand snake between her legs, rubbing her over her knickers. Never would she throw her head back and let out a sigh of pleasure and tilt her hips closer to his hand. 

“No…” She tried to turn away, but the grip on her chin held her steady. Her eyes wouldn’t close, ignoring her brain’s command. The boy was on top of the girl now, coaxing her to let him in, succeeding… 

He’d succeeded. She recalled the throbbing between her legs, the droplets of blood in her knickers. The start of her monthly, she’d thought, and forgot about it, but now she remembered that she hadn’t gotten her monthly… 

Polymela was gasping now, hand over her heart, stumbling backward. Blessedly, the memory was gone and Riddle had let go of her chin. She rubbed it, looking at his smug face without really registering it, too busy trying to get air into her lungs. 

“No,” she breathed over and over, refusing to believe it. “No, no…” Her knees gave out, sending her to the wooden floor. The record fell by her feet, long forgotten. 

A hand was stroking her hair, pulling it roughly away from her scalp. “Until next time, darling.” By the time Polymela had gotten a grip on her breathing, Tom Riddle was gone, off doing whatever Head Boys do when they weren’t seducing fifth-year girls. 

Shame choked her and tears pricked her eyes, but she would not cry, no, not until she was in the porcelain tub behind the locked door of the girls’ dormitory bathroom. 

Unfortunately, upon her arrival, she found that Beatrice Winter had beaten her to it, so Polymela was forced to forgo the bath. Pity, since she felt she desperately needed one, wishing to wash away the awful, sticky shame coating her entire body. 

How could she have done such a thing? How could she have let that happen? She was attracted to Tom Riddle, sure, like over half the upper-year girls at Hogwarts, but unlike some of them, she didn’t fancy him _ that  _ much. Certainly not enough to give herself up to him. 

Yet the soreness between her legs served as a reminder that she was, without a doubt, no longer a virgin. The shame consumed her again, flooding her chest and turning her stomach. The thoughts broke the dam holding back the tears; she cried as quietly as possible behind the bed hangings, finally closed off from the world. 

Never again was she dancing in that room, she vowed to herself, and never again was she touching alcohol, since she obviously couldn’t trust herself to handle it properly. 

_ Something’s wrong. _ Something still wasn’t clear. Riddle’s memory didn’t account for her supposed alcohol-induced blackout, and when had she gotten so drunk? In the first scene, she’d sipped from one glass and in the second one, that pseudo-Polymela hadn’t been drunk enough to pass out. 

And even if she had, why would her own memory cut sharply off after the first sip of champagne? Almost as if the memory itself had been blocked...but why would it? Why would Riddle charm it away only to add his? Why not just let her keep her own?

Because the two don’t coincide, a voice in her mind answered. The rest of her body, now teeming with fear and rage and determination instead of shame, believed it without question. 

~**~ 

It was easier to forget the threat of Grindelwald during the day when Hogwarts was bustling with lessons and mischief. It was easier to justify inaction, for Hogwarts was safest when Albus was there. 

At night, lying in his bed, his mind sang a different tune, telling him he couldn’t hide at Hogwarts forever, that the threat was not going to simply vanish. With brilliance came knowledge, responsibility, and thus the pursuit of the collective well-being, for those who thought like Albus. For every one like him, there was one using their brilliance to seize power and dump the world into chaos. Albus and Gellert, perhaps from the very beginning, were each other’s equal and opposite. 

With the phial empty, the blood pact had no physical barriers to break. Now all the barriers—not many but all profound—were mental. 

Now was the time to break them, now when the danger was edging closer but not quite here yet. The danger, also known as Gellert Grindelwald. Albus did not like to remember that first summer so long ago when they’d been restless boys. Yet the memory was crystal clear, waiting patiently to be mulled over. 

Of all the people to suddenly appear at old Bathilda’s house at Godric’s Hollow, he never would’ve anticipated this merry-faced, also 16-year-old boy from Durmstrang that thought and spoke like him, yet so different from him. If he really wanted to squeeze his heart, Albus would admit that he’d been in love from the start. 

In hindsight, the mere presence of the boy, and by default the relief from the crushing boredom, was enough to enchant him. And the two boys plotted and read and spoke of grand plans. The Greater Good. The theory was pristine: magic in the open and eventually accepted, wizards and muggles living amongst each other rather than in parallel worlds. 

They were too young to understand that almost every plan sounds better in rehearsal than in action. And Albus in particular had been too young to understand true deception. Grindelwald had pretended to reciprocate Albus’ love.  _ That  _ theory had enough evidence to hold up well in action. 

What didn’t make sense was how. How was he able to fake it all? How had Gellert pressed his lips against his in the hot, heavy air of Bathilda’s library, leaving an imprint clearly and permanently stamped in Albus’ mind? The softness of his mouth, the scent of boy-sweat and musty parchment, the blaring sunlight soaking into his back… Albus closed his eyes and let the memory play. When he opened them again, they were misty. 

No, Gellert was not that boy; he’d constructed that boy. Or was he that boy, constructing the charming and ruthless force?  _ Dear Leader _ , his followers called him, like he was a higher being than human. His quest for power had only grown stronger, growing him colder. 

Colder even than at age 17 when he’d asked Albus, “Isn’t it better now?” with only mild curiosity in his blue eyes. Better, meaning now that Ariana was dead, out of the way. 

The question, in its sincerity, brought a chill to the hot summer air. How on Earth would the death of his sister, the sweet, yellow-haired girl who smiled at flowers and birds, make anything better? Gellert  _ could not fathom  _ the pain of loss and didn’t care to know. It was this more so than the “unconventional” experiments at Durmstrang, the lack of family and affection, that spoke of Gellert’s true ability to love, which was none at all. 

He had to be stopped. He should’ve been after he’d admitted to being the one to kill Ariana. Any rational person would’ve maimed him right then. Albus—and Gellert—knew why he hadn’t. Did either of them know who really killed her? 

Gellert had claimed the awful deed, but the shot of light which hit her had been purple, coinciding with the spell Albus had thrown. Desperate, he’d accepted the claim, but now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure if his 14-year-old sister had died by his wand. 

Thus, the real root of reluctance to move against Grindelwald. Not the blood pact, not the broken heart, but the truth. If Grindelwald didn’t kill Ariana, he’d lied, knowing Albus would be broken by devastation. Had he lied to protect Albus or protect his quest? Had he lied at all? 

Forty-six years ago since that awful day cutting his blissful summer brutally short, the last time Albus and Gellert came face-to-face. What would Gellert have to say about that day now? If he confirmed that the purple light had indeed come from Albus’ wand, that implied two damning facts: Albus did kill his sister and Gellert no longer cared if the truth devastated him. 

A single tear leaked out of the corner of his eye and soaked the hair at his temples. No more running from the truth. That merry-faced blonde boy was on a destructive, brainwashing rampage. The past no longer mattered despite the weight on Albus’ chest telling him otherwise. 

No, your place is here, a voice in his head assured him.  _ You must protect Hogwarts.  _ Immediately, it was easier to breathe. 

Coward, another answered, but it went ignored. Perhaps a duel would soon be necessary, but for now he needn’t rush off. All night Albus recited these placations to himself, but slumber continued to avoid him.

~**~


	3. Things That Haven't Happened Yet

A week passed with Polymela glancing at the Slytherin boys, inhaling Yaxley’s cologne, and playing “A Whisper in the Dark” after curfew. She was determined to dislodge the barrier to that memory and for that she needed Tom Riddle. 

This turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. For one, the easy part of spring term was over; lessons resulted in piles of homework in preparation for OWLs. Also, Riddle was not to be found anywhere but the library of Great Hall, presumably dealing with the same for NEWTs. 

She thought about approaching him in the library, since she was often there herself, but that was stupidly dangerous. It was a toss-up between which was worse: being alone with him or anyone seeing her alone with him. 

The plan worked on the single evening Polymela wasn’t pushing for it. She’d gone to the fifth-floor room not to lure Tom Riddle with the record but to simply dance, thereby releasing the upsurge of tension from earlier in the day. 

It had been brought about in Potions, right at the very beginning of the lesson when half of them, a mix of Slytherins and Gryffindors, were in the queue for ingredients. Polymela was sure to take the spot behind Yaxley, meandering while he sauntered up with Felix Murdoch. She didn’t have to rush, since she was paired with Beatrice Winter rather than James Dorsey. 

After a quick glance around, she leaned in close to his shoulder, ready to inhale, but just then, he turned around. She flinched and stepped backward, away from his leer. “One isn’t enough for you, darling?” he asked, pale blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Ready for more?” 

Murdoch chuckled but he wrinkled an eyebrow, apparently not privy to the darker activities of the Slytherin gang. Meanwhile, Polymela clutched her stomach, feeling like he’d plunged an icicle just under her ribcage. If Yaxley knew of the events on New Years Eve—whatever they’d been—soon all of Hogwarts would know. 

“Come closer if you wish,” Yaxley taunted, tugging on her robes, pulling her to him. Her nose filled with his cologne, achieving the goal, but his hand was on the back of her head, holding her in place. 

“Get off me,” she hissed, pressing her hand on his chest albeit gently, not wishing to cause a scene. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Professor Slughorn send a wary glance toward the queue before turning back to McLaggen. 

“A bit too far, mate…” Murdoch was saying uneasily.  Yaxley didn’t let go until Harper Messier appeared, a jar of pickled murtlap tentacles tucked under her arm, and stuck her finger in his face. 

“Enough of it, Icarus,” she commanded before striding away. 

Yaxley was so stunned, he immediately released Polymela and couldn’t form a response until the Slytherin girl had returned to her cauldron next to an open-mouthed Emmeline Arnold. 

“Mind your business, Messier,” he finally snapped. His target just ignored him, capturing a tentacle with a pair of tongs and sliding it out of the jar. 

Polymela was grateful for the intervention, but the icy dread in her stomach only hardened. Did the other Slytherins know of her misadventure? Perhaps not Murdoch but Alphard Black, Cygnus Black’s brother, was much more accepted within the group. 

She glanced at him on the way back to her cauldron. His eyes were shooting daggers at his partner, Murdoch, who kept getting sidetracked heckling Ignatius Prewett. Then it dawned on her that he was a prefect, so no one would be forthcoming with him. Same for the other prefect, Harper Messier, unless she overheard something. Though any rumour would fly over her head, always bent over as she wrote a book that spanned the entirety of civilization from the looks of it. 

The dread hadn’t relaxed a bit throughout the day. Leaving the library at 8:30, record amongst her books in her bag, Polymela headed to the empty room on the fifth floor. Lo and behold, ten minutes into the tunes, she twirled into something solid and alive. 

“Oh!” she gasped, hand over her heart, bending her knees to stabilise herself. 

Her other hand reached for the record, but Tom Riddle spoke. “You haven’t got to turn it off, dear.” 

He was alone. A smirk crossed his face and she felt a fleeting, intense urge to slap it off. She settled on lifting the needle and stood up straight despite the ringing silence and fear racing through her blood. 

“Well aren’t you desperate,” the Head Boy mocked, stepping closer. “Yaxley told me you’re taking a fancy to him as well.” 

Polymela shook her head, suppressing a snort. “I don’t fancy either of you.” 

“Oh, no? This record playing after curfew isn’t your call to me?” 

“Not for the reason you think.” Merlin did she loathe him, but he was much more intimidating—and attractive—when he was right in front of her face. Don’t you dare let yourself be played again, rationality scolded. “I want my memory back of that night.”

“Oh, dear, no you don’t,” Riddle chuckled. “The one I gave you was a much tamer version of your behavior.”

“My behavior or yours?” she shot back, feeling her hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms. 

Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, the older boy merely shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Enough talking, sweetheart,” he said kindly, waving his wand at the wooden chair next to the record player. It morphed into a lounge chair identical to that in his memory. 

The sight of it intensified the rage circulating through her. “I demand to know what happened. Break the charm now!”

A hand was on her waist, a familiar scent burning her nose. “Come, I’ll show you…” The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a sharp ringing. Polymela felt herself growing hysterical, powerless to stop it. “No! Don’t touch me!” 

Her palms flew to his chest and shoved him away, but he barely budged, grabbing her wrists. 

His touch, though not that harsh, along with his scent—not cologne, more like old wood—and those words unleashed a series of images, lobbing themselves at Polymela’s mind like bludgers. 

The record was back on, the lounge chair nearby but now to her left. New Years Eve, she realised just as her eyes locked on the two figures, one holding the other’s wrists. Except this time, the pseudo-Polymela was not giggling, she was protesting. 

_ No, I don’t want to…  _

His hands tightened around her wrists, dragging the skin sharply against bone, her feet stumbling as he pulled her closer to the chair… 

_ Come on, sweetheart, you haven’t got to play coy with me. I know your true desires.  _

_ No, no… _ The girl struggled and momentarily broke free. For a heartbreakingly quick moment, Polymela’s heart leapt, but then Riddle, his face twisted in fury, snatched the front of her blouse and yanked her back, his wand of yew inches from her fear-pinched face. 

_ Do as I say, you little brat.  _

The girl had no choice, as her wand was in her robes. Even if it hadn’t been, she never would’ve won against the most powerful student at Hogwarts in decades, according to all the professors. 

Thus she was forced to watch herself obey his commands to unbutton her blouse, lie on the chair, and open her legs, all the while crying and pleading.  _ Please don’t do this, Tom, I don’t want it.  _

The thought process was that she used his name, he might be diverted from what he was about to do to his classmate. However, it only provoked him further to lean over her, wrap his fist in her hair, and drive himself inside of her.  _ No, Tom, please, no!  _

_ Shut up and take it.  _

“No,” Polymela whispered, overcome with sorrow for that girl, no longer hating her and regretting that hatred, for she hadn’t deserved it. Her eyes stung with tears, the area between her legs searing with pain, her own cries of protest filling her ears.  _ No, don’t you dare cry, not yet _ , her mind begged. 

She blinked the tears away and the memory vanished. Only Tom Riddle stood in front of her, surveying her blankly like he’d just stumbled upon her here. 

“Why?” Her voice came out dull and flat in stark contrast to her shivering limbs. “Why would you hurt me in such a manner?” 

“Oh, please,” he sneered. “You enjoyed it nearly as much as I did.” 

“Clearly not!” she shouted, seething. “Tell me the truth, Riddle! Why?” 

“Why not?” That annoying, awful smirk was back. He was still too close to her but she refused to back away. “Why not, when there’s a silly little girl out after curfew, just asking to be played with.”

“Played—? I’m not a toy, Riddle! You—you  _ hurt _ me, you took what’s  _ mine _ !” 

The Head Boy only grinned at her, like she was a mildly amusing joke. “So very brave you are, cute little Gryffindor.” 

Polymela lifted her head up to look into his eyes. He enjoyed using her, she saw, enjoyed snatching her virginity. The one thing a girl could decide on her own who to give to, and he’d taken that away. “You won’t get away with this, Riddle.”

“Oh, no? Tell me, dear, who’ll take you seriously? The Head Boy, the savior of mudbloods, the brilliant, poor orphan...against a pretty little pureblood girl with daddy issues?” 

At last his real motive, out in the air: he hated not her but the Gryffindor-sorted Slytherin descendant. He hated her blood status and how little it meant to her. Keeping her tone hard, she pointed out, “There is one person in this castle who’ll believe me.”

This was the magic phrase. It was almost satisfying to see him drop the smug facade. He gripped her chin and snarled, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Use your silly little brain, Polymela. If anyone finds out about this, you’re the one who’s finished. Who would want you as a wife? What would Ulysses Nott say upon finding out his dear daughter opened her legs and took it like a whore?” 

Polymela was crying, sinking her face into her hands, each word like needles stabbing into her heart because they were true; he was totally right. Regardless of who she told, he’d be the Head Boy and she the whore. 

Now that the tears were allowed to fall, they poured down her cheeks with abandon. They soaked the sleeves of her robes, clogged her nose, and weakened her knees, hitting the floor as all the dread from the last few weeks flowed out. Riddle’s hand was in her hair, stroking it away from her face. “There, there,” his soft voice came from above. “Let’s get you to the Hospital Wing.” 

Chest heaving, she stood and tried to fight him off, but his hand clamped around her upper arm. “Do not resist me or you’ll be sorry,” he warned in her ear. 

She let him lead her into the corridor as she silently continued to cry. A few mumbling voices and the shuffling of feet floated by, but Polymela did not lift her head, wishing she could climb into bed and stay behind a locked door forever. 

“What happened to her?” a female voice asked.

“Found her crying on the fifth floor,” Riddle answered serenely. “Stress, I suppose.” 

Polymela wiped her eyes to see who in the castle would be so concerned about her crying. Lysandra Bell, Head Girl, was appraising her with a not-very-concerned expression. In fact, she looked quite affronted. The reason for that occurred to Polymela a second later: Lysandra fancied Tom Riddle and had just found him walking alone with a fifth-year.  _ You’re the one who’s finished _ . Polymela was surprised at how little she cared. On the contrary, she pitied Lysandra for her infatuation with such a monster. 

“Well, to the Hospital Wing with her, then,” the Head Girl said, devoid of passion, wrinkling her nose at the puffy-eyed girl before her. 

“Indeed,” Riddle replied, tugging Polymela along. “Goodnight, Lysandra.”

“Goodnight, Tom,” came a response in a much brighter tone. 

Polymela regretted lifting her head, so she kept it down until her Mary Janes hit tile and her nose inhaled the strong, odd scent of the Hospital Wing. 

“What’s happened?” asked the much kinder voice of Madam Gurnsey, Hogwarts’ nurse. Warmer, gentler hands took her shoulders and Riddle loosened his grip at last. 

“I found her on the fifth floor like this,” he said. “Poor dear seems stressed out.”

“Too right you are, Tom. Come, sweetheart.”

Polymela raised her stinging, swollen eyes to Madam Gurnsey’s concerned green ones. “My record,” she blurted, her raspy voice cutting the back of her throat on the way out. “It’s still—It’s on the fifth floor…” She hadn’t an idea why on Earth it was so important, but she was intent on getting it back. 

“I’ll make sure it’s returned to your dormitory,” Riddle said, giving her a pat on the head. 

“Oh, Tom, you’re such a dear!” Madam Gurnsey exclaimed from a bed on the far left, pulling a sheet over it. “Come, dear, lie down.” 

Polymela sat on the bed and watched the Head Boy walk out of the Hospital Wing. He turned back just before disappearing from view, a ghost of a smirk on his handsome, evil face. She doubted that record would be returned to her, but by that time, it was just another loss. She’d lost everything else after all. 

No, she reminded herself, not everything. Her memory was intact, the charm broken. Her own ghost of a smile lifted the corner of her lips as she lie down, accepting a cool cloth on her forehead by Madam Gurnsey. 

That sick boy had tried to take everything she had, but her mind turned out to be stronger than anticipated. The knowledge of that would prevent anyone else from breaking her. The rest, she could deal with later. 

~**~

Simply put, Albus had tried. His mind was blurred, his eyes desperate to close. The fog of tension blanketing the UK had extended to Hogwarts, affecting the students’ behavior. It was reminiscent of three years prior, when the “monster” killed that Revenclaw girl. 

It had been a long day of lessons and detentions. The last one had just ended. A Slytherin first year desperate to impress the older boys by conjuring a flock of birds and sending them at a Gryffindor boy. The birds were conjured, but they simply flew across the ceiling of the Great Hall, mistaking it for the actual sky, squawking incessantly. The students found it amusing until the droppings started splattering on them and their plates. 

Altogether, 24 hours of chaos, but now a bout of calm. Albus took a seat at his desk, where a cup of lukewarm tea was waiting for him. Though he knew a house elf would love to fetch him another, he drank this one. The blazing fire nearby kept him warm enough. 

The chaos had an upside: no time to ruminate over Gellert Grindelwald and his forces of evil. Now the unsettlement was creeping in, nagging at his mind. His solution was to distract himself from it with a book by his good friend and author, Nicolas Flamel. 

As soon as he opened  _ Mechanisms of Elemental Control _ , a knock came from his door. “Enter,” he called, grateful for further distraction. 

The door slowly opened and the Head Boy, Tom Riddle, poked his head in the office. 

An anomaly of the entire castle, Albus did not enjoy the boy’s presence, did not trust him, but he’d never speak his true feelings while Riddle was still a student. 

“Hello, Tom. Have a seat.” 

“Good evening, Professor,” he said in his carefully-crafted tone, sitting in the chair in front of the desk. “I’ve come to inform you that you may not see Polymela Nott in lessons tomorrow, for she is in the Hospital Wing.” 

It was not unusual for the Heads or a prefect to inform him of any mishaps of another student. However, for a reason Albus couldn’t discern yet, he knew this situation was unusual. 

“What’s happened?” he asked. 

“I’m not sure, sir,” Riddle answered. “I found her crying alone on the fifth floor. Perhaps she’s gotten some bad news. 

Albus looked into the boy’s dark eyes and a battle of will broke out as both attempted to probe each other’s minds all the while keeping their own closed. Riddle was a gifted Legilimens; not a secret since he’d revealed it upon their first meeting at age 11, back when he had some thread of humanity in him. 

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I do hope she’ll be alright.”

Riddle nodded. “She will be, sir.”

Something in his tone, his eyes, gave him away. He had no outward expression, sitting blank-faced, waiting to be dismissed. Yet Albus had a strong feeling of deja vu, taken sharply back to 1942 when the boy had asked if the school was going to close. He’d know something then about Myrtle Warren, just like he knew something now about Polymela Nott. 

The previous day, Albus had held his fifth-year lesson with the Slytherins and Gryffindors—the dreaded combination—and seen Icarus Yaxley give the Nott girl a stare that was both lascivious and scornful, as if she’d undressed then and there. That along with the underlying smugness of the boy in front of him pointed to something nasty involving Polymela Nott. 

But like with the death of Myrtle and countless other questionable incidents over the past seven years, Albus had no tangible proof to display concerning Riddle’s involvement in it all. 

“Good night, Mr. Riddle,” he finally said, looking away from the pair of black holes. 

“Good night, Professor.” 

As the door closed behind his tall frame, Albus’ eyes strayed to the fire. Again he thought of Gellert but not with heartache and longing. The evidence of his misdeeds was splashed across every newspaper. They’d been around Riddle’s age when they’d met, and during the previous ten minutes, Albus felt like he’d been looking into a window of the past. 

Once, seven years ago, he’d hoped to help the orphan who’d been raised amongst the sirens and explosions and rubble, hoped to guide him and help him hone his extraordinary magical ability. Over time it had become clear that Riddle was not interested in help and guidance. Only power. 

Once, 46 years ago, Albus had attempted the same with Gellert, even more so, giving him his heart and soul. And he, too, was only swayed by power and control. The two were very alike, primarily victims of fear and uncertainty, but now the time for understanding had passed. 

Albus reached down, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out the small cedar chest. He’d take the empty phial to show that pacts and faith were broken; no more barriers to defeat. Likely, he would always love Gellert, but he owed it to Myrtle Warren and Polymela Nott, and Ariana, to fight. 

The Greater Good, he thought, letting out a heavy exhale and tucking the cedar box back into the drawer. 

~**~ 

The End    
  



End file.
